


By the Hand of the Mortal

by MI5WWII



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, BAMF Castiel, BAMF Dean, Dragon Castiel, Dragon Gabriel, Dragon war, Dragons, Healer Dean Winchester, M/M, Magic-Users, Soul Bond, Soul Sex, Warlock Dean, alternate universe-future yet medieval with magic?, it says modern with magic but it should really be post-modern, magic dean, magic sam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-16 13:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7269328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MI5WWII/pseuds/MI5WWII
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean works as a simple healer and potion shop owner. He caters mostly to the local magic community and his stressed out magi brother. But news from the north comes, Lucifer is alive, and a dragon war is coming,  with it the probable end of the world.Then a northern drake busts through his door who calls himself Castiel, demanding his services. Dean becomes far more entangled with dragon affairs and wars than he ever imagined. The dragons say he is the key to saving the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Carpe Diem

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the title of a song from Audiomachine.
> 
> I will, of course, be adding tags when this fic actually warrants that E rating.
> 
> I'm on tumblr at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dawigginator come hang out with me! I shit post 24/7 and I would love to chat uselessly and rant with you guys!

The amethyst, rain drop shaped, potion bottle wavered on the edge of the shelf for a moment, wobbling with dangerous intent. Dean swiveled, arms laden with tea and herb boxes and glared the bottle down.

“Don’t even think about it, asshole.”

The bottle scuttled away from the edge with a small yelp. Dean dumped out the ingredients on his work table and aimed a wide, charming smile to the customer shifting behind the counter.

“Don’t mind the extract, it goes sentient when fermented. Now, you said migraines and insomnia," Dean said and tapped the arch of his eyebrow. “ Is the migraine behind your eyes, right here, or at your temples?”

The female alchemist behind the counter winced and brushed a charcoal smeared hand over her right eyebrow.

“Right under my eye socket,” she said. “It feels like the pressure is pushing out.”

Dean nodded and scooped a handful of dried rosemary into his mortar. He squinted for a moment and added a pinch more, sprinkled in mint, cloves, and coffee beans. The shop hummed from quiet protection wards placed around the perimeter of the building. Above the muffled buzz, the sound of Dean scraping herbs in the mortar carried through the still air. The potions and spells, sentient or not, were content in laziness today. He should have guessed something was up, the bastards.

Dean poured the herbs into a brown, waxy, envelope and handed it to the alchemist with a flourish and grin. “Your cure Ma’am.”

“So what’s wrong with me exactly?” She asked.

“Minor lead poisoning, the mixture is to cleanse your system.” He winked. “With a little somethin’ extra.”

The alchemist left wearing a befuddled expression, aura flickering from nausea and bemusement. 

The shop stayed quiet and slow for the rest of the morning. Dean restocked the jars of tea that sat on the shelves behind the front counter. Many non magic users popped into the shop for herbal remedies. And many of the eastern teas looked flashy and exotic; the bright colors meant he could charge more by the ounce. Morning stretched into midday, and Dean took advantage of the cool breeze and warm sun to tend his soul flowers in the greenhouse. They furled open at his soft touch and he smiled to himself, humming under his breath.

The front door barrier pinged and Dean popped his head back into the shop. Sam ducked under several bunches of yarrow hung from overhead, wood, beams. His lips were pressed together in a familiar expression of frustration. He shed his burgundy and gold magi robes and collapsed in Dean’s chair behind the counter.

“What happened this time” Dean asked. He reached under the counter without prompt and retrieved the whisky. Sam closed his eyes and sighed deep through his nose. The finger of whiskey went down fast and smooth.

“Another border dispute,” Sam said. “It escalated─ there were, casualties.”

“Werewolves?”

Sam’s eye twitched. “Werewolves,” he agreed.

Sam acted as appointed emissary between the local Werewolf packs. In the beginning he leapt at the opportunity. Even in the modern, magic world, creatures and foreign species were known little of. They, like all close knit communities, liked to stay secretive and allusive to larger society. Even though Sam studied for years, and probably knew more than a doctor in creaturology, an inside knowledge of Werewolf interpack dynamics was too good to pass up. Three years later and most days he came slamming into Dean’s potion shop ready to bust something vital. Werewolves, as it turned out, were the actual worst.

He poured Sam another finger of whiskey. “I thought Garth was helping smooth everything over?”

“You know Garth.” Sam sighed. “He means well, but he’s just an omega. Besides, when have the Campbells ever stood to reason?”

Dean liked to ignore the fact that his mother was a born Campbell. Luckily the lupine gene wasn’t a one-hundred percent hereditary trait, even luckier that neither he nor Sam landed the extra hairy gene. And possibly the luckiest bit of all, that she fell in love with a human warlock and got herself excommunicated from her backwater speciest family.

He could see and feel Sam’s aura throb with his pulse. Dean ruffled Sam’s hair as he brushed past, leaching pain. Sam’s shoulders dropped.

“Thanks”

Dean pulled down a vial of magenta liquid from his shelf of potions. He slapped it onto the counter beside Sam’s hand still curled around the whiskey glass.

“This will help with the stress. I still think you should drop the gig.”

Sam huffed. “It’s a pain in the ass, but I’ve learned so much already! It’ll be a great start for the first chapter.”

Ah yes, Sam’s creature book. The one he had talked about writing since a family of vampires moved in next door when they were kids. The idiot should have gone into a career of scribe work, or field research. The magi made up a suspicious percentage of Dean’s client base for stress potions and pain elixirs. 

Dean opened his mouth to argue that it wasn’t worth it, but the front entrance barrier buzzed. Charlie shoved the shop door open with her hip and bustled in carrying a large basket.

“Greetings Earthlings!” She crowed.

Sam waved hello while Dean rolled his eyes.

They cleared space for Charlie’s basket. She dropped it onto the counter and began pulling out jars of berries and honey.

“You still feeding this weirdo?” Sam asked.

Dean tsked and shoved him with a well placed jab of his elbow. 

Charlie laughed. “The elders thought you could use more dark wood honey since that epidemic last month wiped out your stores.”

The forest fey were always too good to Dean. Fairies took special note of healers anyway, but Charlie’s people were especially kind.

“I also brought the hatchling laughter you asked for.” She pulled a vile of gleaming silver out. “And where ─ here it is. I found a small patch of Ginseng. There are hardly any growing in the forests this year so you’ll have to ration it.”

Dean kissed the side of Charlie’s head and squeezed her shoulders. “You beautiful, wonderful ─ honestly Charlie are you sure the elders won’t let me marry you?” He asked.

Charlie snorted and pushed him away with a careless bat of her wing. 

“You’re disgusting. Get your questionable male paws off me.”

Dean leaned against the counter. “You want to make sweet mortal love to me and make beautiful changeling children.”

Sam made a wounded noise. “I’ll lock you in the greenhouse myself if you don’t stop.

Dean grinned, though his expression dropped as Charlie pulled a news pamphlet from the basket with a solemn expression and handed it to him. Dean squinted at the slanted symbols for a moment.

“Hate to ruin both of your mornings, but there’s news,” she said.

“Charlie my northern is awful. What does this say?”

Sam pried the pamphlet from his hands and scanned it. He gaped as he read, cheeks paling.

“Holy shit, Charlie is this true?” Sam stammered.

“It’s why I came by. The elders are debating a call to arms.”

“Will someone tell me what the hell is happening?” Dean demanded.

Sam swallowed. “There’s to be a war.”

Dean snatched the pamphlet back and waded through the first two sentences. He finally tripped over one word he did recognize. Nausea curled tight in his gut. 

Dracones

“Holy ─ holy fuck.” Dean sagged into his chair. “Sam?” He questioned.

“It says Lucifer is still alive. That Michael and the clans are dividing and preparing for war. I don’t think they know much, it’s mostly panicked speculation,” Sam offered.

“I heard the water tribe talking about it this morning,” Charlie said. “Word from up north is Lucifer is MIA. Only reason anyone knows is because Michael sent out a warning.”

Sam shook his head. “He’s really alive, after all this time? Like a history book coming to haunt us.”

If the preEnd armies of the world hadn’t defeated Lucifer and put him in his grave? They were fucked, plain and simple. Two thousand years later and the world was going to end all over again. Ever since the Great War, dragons were rarer than elves, fey, all of the immortals combined. There weren’t enough to fight Lucifer again. The death of a dragon could wipe out an entire continent, Christ. 

They sat in silence for a while. Dean drummed his fingers on the counter in thought. His mind, though caught on the war, also wavered to thought’s of his father. He remembered sitting on John’s work counter as a child, watching him cast spells in the safety of their basement. He remembered the bubbling up of his own magic, in answer to his father’s. Blue sparks of static had jumped across his palms, a contrast to the lava orange light of his father’s warlock power.

When he grew older, old enough to develop a healer’s gifts, his deeper magic grew unpredictable. Any unchecked emotion sent waves of raw energy. On the sixth anniversary of his mother’s death he left a scorched circle in the town center. Jo had lain on the ground, sobbing over her singed, blistered hands. John pushed Dean to his knees beside her and snarled. Heal her.

His tears of remorse had smoothed away the waxy red of her skin. Internally his power continued to pulse and squirm. He ached, even then to let it loose all over again. His father had gentled his hands on his shoulders and whispered a warning.

“Your gift is to heal, Dean,” he said. “Do not let your mother look from beyond and see that your grief is driving others to pain. Do only good, so that she can be proud.”

Dean shoved away his anger and power as far within himself as he could drive it. He let that inner electric heat die so that he could feel at peace, not torn apart. 

He thought of his mother, and he thought of the war.

“They will need healers on the front,” he said carefully.

Charlie’s wings quivered as Sam reeled away from the counter. “Dean,” she started.

“You know nothing about healing dragons,” Sam cried.

“There will many others fighting besides dragons, elves, fairies,” Dean’s voice gentled, “werewolves, men ─ warlocks.”

Sam’s face fell. “You don’t have to repent for being unable to save dad.”

“It’s not about repentance,” Dean said. “It’s about saving people. Doing the right thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is about 90% dialogue, which I am completely aware of. The rest of the story will not be this dialogue heavy I promise! My chapters are also, usually, about 2,000 words longer but I was chomping at the bit to upload this, voila.


	2. Rash Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only took me two years to update this,there's nothing to be ashamed of.I repeatedly entertained the idea of abandoning most of my works on here, since I am starting graduate school this fall, but this story in particular has stuck with me, and so it must be nurtured and finished, before it finishes me.  
> I can with confidence promise, that updates will be coming semi-often,for all our sakes.

A month passed with no further word on the dragon war. Rumors spread like rampant wildfire, that Lucifer amassed forces in the north, while any updates from further south were ambiguous and worryingly vague. Despite his proclamation to drop everything and hightail it to the front, Dean remained in his shop. He felt like a fraud and a coward, but where was he supposed to go? If any of the supernatural communities had half a clue to what was going on, they were keeping their mouths firmly shut on the matter. Charlie, who Dean normally had to shoo from the shop, simply so he could serve customers and perform inventory, flitted by every other day. She now rung her hands, while her fiery red wings twitching nervously, as she explained that the fey councils weren’t telling the lower ranking fey anything. 

Sam however, who Dean usually had to beg and bribe to come by in-between the moon phases and important pack meetings, now popped in and out like clockwork. He claimed the unstable political climate was causing everyone’s auras to emit headache inducing energies, but Dean suspected the focus of Sam’s visits were to keep tabs on Dean himself.

“I’m begging you not to run off. This is so much bigger than us, Dean.” He said every time he came by.

Dean kept his mouth shut. Arguing only caused Sam to emit waves of headache pain, which always caused a migraine to surface for Dean. No, arguing with Sam never worked, they were both as stubborn as their tenuous werewolf relations, despite what they liked to claim. However, Dean kept an emergency bag packed under his bed, beside a satchel of essential healer’s and warlock’s supplies. Dean could play innocent, but he wasn’t about playing stupid, not when the world was on the brink of dragon war.

However, business boomed great when the general public lived on the brink of panic. Magic users, supernaturals, and plain old, ordinary, humans alike bustled in and out so often Dean could hardly keep his basic healer supplies in stock. He stayed up till his eyes burned with exhaustion every night to weave new protection charms, which were all sold by noon the next day. Dean regretted most that his soul flowers, which normally thrived by this time of year under his care, now bloomed with halfhearted will. They still blossomed with a moonlit glow, though he feared they would lose their usual luminescent shine after he cut the blooms from their vines.

Another week passed, while Dean brewed potions and droughts as quickly as he conceivably could. He ground plasters and poultices, and dried herbs and spices so methodically it became numbing. But the following Monday, Charlie burst through his shop door, wings spread wide in alarm. 

“Lucifer attacked New Jerusalem,” she said.

Dean dumped his armload of potion bottles onto the counter and wiped sweat from his forehead.

“What happened?” He demanded.

Charlie glanced over her shoulder, as if she thought someone with ill will would come bursting through the door at any moment. “Word just reached the elders from several days ago. Lucifer attacked New Jerusalem with no warning and-- and they say the fallen dragons are risen to. A whole army stormed the city and the high elves surrendered but--”   
Charlie’s mouth quivered, and Dean leaned against the counter, knees weak with sudden fear. 

“What happened, Charlie?”

“They slaughtered them,” she whispered.

“Who?”

“Everyone, Dean, they killed everyone in the city.”

A rage so old and deep he hardly recognized it, bubbled up in his stomach, a whisper of old wounds, old pain, and old power. How could the gods let this happen? How could the dragons, the elders, the elves, for gods’ sakes, how was no-one prepared for this? All the innocents, the ordinary non-magic humans that lived in coexisting peace with the supernatural and magic communities.

“What about the non-magic children? Surely, they left them alive, they’re not a threat they’re—” Dean trailed off at the expression on Charlie’s face. There was no reason to attack non-magic humans, no reason to hurt children, they were no threat. Dean grit out a breath between clenched teeth and the wooden ceiling beams creaked while the window panes rattled with a sudden gust of wind. Charlie’s wings flicked in surprise. 

“Dean, is that you?”

Dean rubbed a hand over his eyes, took a centering breath, and shoved the rage down, deep in the dark pit in his stomach where he stomped down all his erratic magic and unrest. The pit consumed the pain and rage as a child, and the dark maw licked at this new rage like hungry flames, stoked with new life and intent. He swallowed around the dryness in his throat and kept shoving down, out-out, out you go, he thought. The maw and hunger closed up like a shut bag and Dean breathed a sigh as the windows stopped rattling. He rubbed at his eyes again and cast Charlie a tired smile.

“Sorry,” he said, “it’s worse when I’m tired.”

“Since when has your magic been unstable? I always thought healers had benign energy.”

“I just get angry sometimes is all. Have the elders heard any news of Michael, of the other dragons? He asked.

Charlie narrowed her eyes at Dean. “You aren’t going to run off, are you? Why do mortal men have such romanticized notions of war?”

Dean began shelving his potions now and threw Charlie a drought of confidence, perfect for her many ill gone flirting escapades. “I don’t want to go to war, Charlie. I’m a healer, and I have soul flowers to tend, a shop to keep. But we can’t just stay here while others go to die to protect us. How can I stay here when I can heal them, help them?”

“It’ll kill Sam,” she said.

“Yeah well, Lucifer is killing innocent people!” Dean slammed a bottle onto the counter and one of the sentient brews jumped in alarm and shrieked with fright.

At that moment the protection barrier hummed, and Joe Harvelle walked through the shop door. She paused for a moment and then raised her eyebrows.

“So, I take it you’ve heard the awful news,” Joe said.

Dean sighed, and the barrier thrummed again as Sam threw the door wide open with far too much force. His aura thrummed with chaos and he cast Dean a wild-eyed look.

“Have you heard the news?” He asked, out of breath.

Dean threw his hands in the air. “Well let’s just have a village meeting in my living room, shall we?”

Joe sidled up to the counter, looking amused, and Dean didn’t miss Charlie’s appreciative expression for a brief moment. Joe shoved her hands in her breeches’ pockets and leaned against the counter.

“Not that I don’t love ya’ but I’m actually here to snag a couple protection charms for mom. She freaked this morning, seems to think your little voodoo bags will ward off Lucifer himself.”

Dean laughed. “How many does she need?”

“However many you have, man,” she said.

Sam pulled off his magi robes and came to stand beside Joe and Charlie. “The roadhouse hasn’t been hurting has it?” Sam asked.

Joe scoffed, and pocketed Dean’s protection charms he handed her. “Humans only drink more as times get worse. How much do I owe you, Dean?”

Dean waved his hand flippantly. “Tell Ellen it’s on her tab.”

“Dean,” Joe laughed, “mom’s tab could pay for me to go to university by now.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Joe narrowed her eyes at him, but ultimately shrugged. “I’ll make sure to tell mom. See ya’ Sam, Charlie.”

Charlie’s wings perked up and they waved to Joe as she sauntered back out his shop door. Charlie’s head swiveled back around to stare Dean down. “Tell Sam you’re planning to run off to join the jolly war still.”

Sam puffed up like an angry owl while Dean sighed. “Charlie, how many fucking times do we have to do this?”

Charlie and Sam both crossed their arms simultaneously, so smoothly it looked like they had been practicing. Sam still looked like a ruffled and indignant bird as he spoke. “Dean, we’re just afraid you are going to do something stupid.”

Charlie nodded along, like the traitor, fey, lacky she was. “Everyday, I’m afraid you’ve runaway to join the war. Just promise us you won’t do anything rash or stupid.”

Dean rolled his eyes but placed his hand over his heart and raised his left arm. A small plume of blue light built in his palm and he swore with a straight face. “I gravely promise to not do anything rash without thought.”

Sam’s face soured at Dean’s wording. “Dean.”

Dean curled his hand into a fist and the blue flame snuffed out. “Sam,” he sniped, “you can at least rest easy that I won’t be stealing away tonight.”  
________________________________________  
Dean sat hunched over his shop counter, squinting and willing away an eye watering headache. His light orb hovered over his right shoulder, bobbing and emitting a pale washed out glow. He smacked at it with a huff. “Stop that and hold still.” It stilled, and he went back to his mortar and pestle. A curl of purple smoke puffed up with every grind of his pestle against the soul flower in the mortar.

The time had to be well past ten, and he longed to collapse into his bed with every fiber of his being. It figured to be just his luck that the first batch of his soul flowers were in full bloom in the middle of all the town ruckus amidst the war news. The wind suddenly picked up outside and several of his enchanted chimes clanged and clamored. Dean finished grinding the flower and carefully poured the soul dust into a pearlescent bottle, which nearly brimmed full of the other ground up soul flowers.

A pounding knock on the door made him nearly jump out of his skin. His protection wards remained suspiciously quiet as the chimes continued to clang with the wind. The thundering knocking continued, and Dean hollered over the horrible racket. “I’m closed, come back tomorrow.” The knocking paused for the briefest of moments, long enough for him to cork the bottle of ground up soul flower, before it started up again, so loud that the door sounded like it would rattle off its hinges. Dean stood from the counter, tired and pissed and ready to let whoever was being such an ass have a piece of his mind, when the banging reached a deafening crescendo and the lock splintered from the frame and the door flew open with a screech.

Dean leapt away from the counter and threw his hands up, magic swelling into a luminous blue shield. A tall, dark figure stalked through the entrance, and Dean’s protective barriers disintegrated around the man like cobwebs. Dean gaped as the man stepped into the light of his erratically bouncing light orb to reveal a sharp-edged figure. He wore travel dusted clothes and a full cloak that fell over the distinctive outline of a sword underneath. His dangerous features glinted severely and otherworldly in the light of Dean’s magic and he reactively lifted his hands higher in defense.

The man pulled his lips back in a snarl and Dean froze at the flash of sharp canines and ethereal, glowing blue eyes. The man seemed to settle when Dean made no further move and the teeth and eyes disappeared. The man cleared his throat and his voice carried through the sudden quiet of the shop, deep and grinding, like the sound of rock and stone, ancient and deeper than the earth. “I realize with my violent entrance you may disbelieve my words, but I am not hear to hurt you, healer.”

Dean kept his hands raised. “Prove it.”

The man raised his own hands in supplication, palms raised towards the ceiling. “I am hear on the word of Robert Singer, he said you could help me.” His voice lilted, heavy with the accent of an individual who spoke northern as their first language.

Dean’s hands lowered slightly. “You know Bobby?”

“He told me that I am to impart the phrase, ‘take his damn word ya’ idjit’ though I do not see how that proves my innocence of intention?”

Dean scoffed and lowered his hands, though he kept a wary distance and shifted closer to the sword he kept under his counter. “What do you want, after you’ve splintered my door in and half destroyed my shop?”

The man frowned. “I apologize, your wards were much stronger than I expected, though since Robert Singer recommended you so highly, I shouldn’t be surprised. My name is Castiel, and I am here on behalf of Michael.”

Dean squeaked, “The dragon, Michael? What have I got to do with him?”

Castiel pulled a scroll from his belt and held it out to Dean. He hesitated for a moment but stepped forward to pull it from Castiel’s hand. He pulled open the paper and skimmed over the curved script, mouth pulled down in a frown.

“I can’t read northern very well,” Dean admitted.

“It is a call to arms, for the help and patronage of all magical entities and supernatural creatures. The armies of light are in desperate need,” stated Castiel, matter-of-factly.

Dean stared at the scripted northern on the scroll blankly before he looked back up to Castiel. “I’m sorry, and you want me to what exactly?”

Castiel’s gaze did not waver and Dean prickled with discomfort. “We need healers, quite badly,” he said. He then hesitated before offering, in a strained voice. “My brother is gravely wounded, and Robert Singer told me that you are the only healer capable of saving him.”

Dean though of his father, of his mother, and every other person he couldn’t save. He thought of the children in New Jerusalem, and the many more to die. It really wasn’t a choice was it? He nodded. “What is wrong with your brother?”

“He took a powerful spell from a dark witch, we are unsure of its nature, though it is draining his grace.”

Dean stilled and gazed at Castiel, really looked at his aura for the first time tonight. He was powerful, that much was evident, but so powerful that he kept himself shielded. Dean had seen many creatures in his day, werewolves, vampires, elves, fairies, the list was really too long to count. But creatures tended to all blend together after a while, no matter what Sam said, so that teeth and glinting eyes didn’t mean much initially. But now Dean sucked in a deep breath and shook down to his core with fear and awe.

“Your brother is a dragon then…so you’re a--?” He asked. But it really wasn’t a question, Dean wasn’t stupid. He only stated the earth shattering obvious. 

Castiel cocked his head at how Dean paled and the stricken expression he must be sporting. “I am a dragon as well, yes. Will you help us?”

Dean briefly thought, Sam is going to fucking kill me, before he nodded. “Let me grab my things.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ginseng is a medicinal plant that grows in Northern America and Asia. I think it is mostly picked in Appalachia and is worth big $$$ don't pick it out of season though or it's a felony. The more you know.


End file.
